


Alison and Bill vs. the Stalker Slime from Beyond the End of the Universe

by ModernWizard



Series: Alison Wonderland [10]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: Alison Cheney deserves better, Bill Potts Deserves Better, Canon Character of Color, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Character of Color, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Disabled Character of Color, Exes, F/F, Female Character of Color, Kinky Alison, Kinky Bill, Lesbians in Space, Life with robotic enhancements, No Lesbians Die, People with Disabilities, Robot Feels, Robots, Shalka Dorks, Shalkaverse, So is Heather, Stalking, The Twelfth Doctor is basically a shit, There's a reason that one of these tags is BILL POTTS DESERVES BETTER, Words cannot describe how much I loathe both characters, disabled people, the Dork family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernWizard/pseuds/ModernWizard
Summary: Now that Alison Cheney has rescued Bill Potts from another universe where she was being mistreated by a shitty version of the Twelfth Doctor, she and Bill have returned to Alison's Earth. They have been living contentedly with the Doctor and the Doctor's inevitable spouse ["the Magister" to Alison, "the Master" to the Doctor] as the Dork family. Alison and Bill are totally, deeply, completely in love, though Alison would rather not admit it, and the sex is pretty damn hot as well.Then Bill's creepy stalker ex from another universe shows up. Alison and Bill's attempts to make her fuck off do not succeed. Alison, who has an evil alien superpowered robot at her disposal and is not afraid to use him, calls in the Magister for assistance.





	1. Alison's Taste of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still surprised by how much each of them appreciates the other, Alison and Bill reminisce about the somewhat embarrassing but hot sex they had last night. They pay each other lots of compliments.

“So...last night…” says Alison to Bill in a low voice. Like their Time Dorks, the two are a couple, but they live separately. Alison resides here in the States with the Magister, and Bill resides across the pond in London with the Doctor. When you’ve got Time Dorks in your immediate family and their opinionated time ships, the TARDISes, as part of your chosen kin, an ocean provides little barrier to getting together. Alison and Bill can see each other almost immediately whenever they want. Bill proposed a romantic weekend of snuggling and screwing, so Anima, the Doctor’s TARDIS, dropped her off here at the Magister’s house in Burlington, Vermont, yesterday, and...well...

 

“Mmm, yeah...last night…” Bill sighs. Driving at Alison’s side in the power wheelchair that she uses to conserve energy on her bad pain days, she neatly swerves around yet another puddle from last night’s rain. Closing her eyes for a moment, she turns her full, round lips into a reminiscent smirk. She presses one hand over her Cyber heart, part of her mechanical core that sustains her biological parts.

 

“Was it...okay? At least halfway salvageable?” Alison accidentally scuffs her trainer on a crack in the pavement and catches herself. They’re on the southern end of the Burlington Bike Path, which runs just meters from the Lake Champlain shore along the city’s western border. The ripply path is as full of little hills and valleys as the state of Vermont itself. Bill may be able to weave across the miniature mountain ranges, finding the flattest route possible, but Alison needs to watch where she’s going.

 

Bill flicks a few switches on her joybox of her chair, a sleek, chrome-plated contraption made by the Doctor. From within Bill’s wheels comes the sound of a roaring rocket launch melded with an exultant chorus. “It was amazing!” For someone who just started using a chair less than a year ago, Bill now incorporates its sounds into her sentences as easily as punctuation marks.

 

“Amazingly excruciating, yeah, sure.” Alison shivers as a breeze picks up across the broad, slate blue water, licking it into tufted whitecaps. March mud may be squishing beneath their feet, but winter’s ice still floats in the air and the water. “That whole coconut oil debacle… I can’t believe that Scintilla went to ask the Magister, of all people, if there was any in the house.” She shakes her head.

 

“Hee hee.” All wrapped up in rainbows, from the horizontal stripes of her hoodie to the fleecy spectrum of the blanket tucked around her legs, Bill seems unperturbed by both the damp chill and yesterday’s events. “Well, it makes sense from her point of view, yeah?” she points out. “Your robot’s the one who cooks, so he stocks the pantry, and he can probably tell you how much coconut oil is left down to the last milliliter if there is any.”

 

“Yeah, but did she really have to tell him that _Miss Alison and Miss Bill want it because they’re making sweets in Miss Alison’s secret hideaway?”_ On the other side of Lake Champlain, the Adirondacks of New York hold the same dim blue softness of the gloomy sky above them. It’s much easier for Alison to wonder if there’s more rain coming than to go face to face with someone that she wants so desperately to impress.

 

Though she has known Bill for about eight months, Alison still feels unsure about saying that she has a _girlfriend_ or a _partner._ She, the Magister, Bill, and the Doctor have been calling themselves _the Dork family_ since Bill joined, but that familial appellation signals less commitment to Alison than does _partner._ Or perhaps _the Dork family_ represents a different kind of commitment -- one to keep all members safe and whole and happy -- than that of partnership. Being Bill’s partner would mean loving her, and love, Alison is pretty sure, takes more than eight months to develop.

 

 _“Making sweets in the hideaway._ That should totally be our code phrase from now on. Then we can just sidle up to each other and say, _Hey, fancy making some sweets this evening?”_ Lowering her voice for the question, Bill bounces her eyebrows independently of each other.

 

As much as she tries to postpone falling in love with Bill, Alison must admit that life with her is a constant miracle. It’s not always easy or joyful -- as last night’s rather awkward sex proves -- but it’s always full of wonder. Whether seated in her power wheelchair or standing [if it’s a good day pain wise], Bill bends forward into the world with the inquisitive tilt of a scientist. Her big brown eyes, over which soar long, thick eyebrows, seek out the reasons and details of everything. Her bold face with curvy cheekbones translates every synaptic pulse of her thoughts into an expression. Her smile comes to her face quickly, and it’s such an open invitation that Alison must smile too.

 

Alison snickers. “You goof! Everyone’s going to know exactly what that means if you act like that.”

 

“So? The Doctor and the Prof,” says Bill, using her own nickname for Alison’s robot, “know we have sex.”

 

“That’s not the problem.” Alison throws up her hands. “The problem is when we have an _extra_ helpful TARDIS telling the Magister exactly when we’re going to fuck and exactly what supplies we need when we’re gonna do it. I’m surprised she didn’t ask him if we could borrow some of his, you know, other stuff.”

 

“He has, uh, stuff?”

 

“Bill, this is the guy who not only invented the iron maiden because he was bored, but also went time traveling to make the hoax more believable -- _and_ I found him napping in it one time. I’m pretty sure he has a ton of stuff.”

 

“But...you told me you’re not into that, yeah?”

 

“No, I’m not. Don’t worry. But Scintilla extrapolates from what she knows. She probably assumes that BDSM requires ridiculously expensive machines.”

 

“Ah hah hah, seeing it now. _I didn’t really know what kind of tools you were going to use, Miss Alison and Miss Bill, so here’s the key to the dungeon. Let me know what you want, and I’ll back up the forklift._ Love Scintilla! She’s the best.”

 

“Of course you love her. You like irrepressible people, and she’s just like the Doctor that way. I can’t believe you’re so nonchalant about this.”

 

“Did you really have a bad time last night?” The outer ends of Bill’s eyebrows drop.

 

“It was embarrassing.”

 

“Just the coconut oil part, yeah? Or, um, the whole thing? Did I… Did I embarrass you? I’m sorry, Alisonshine; really I am. I just…”

 

“No! No!” Stopping in the middle of the bike path, Alison puts her arm around Bill. “You didn’t embarrass me at all! I’m just...embarrassed at my own fuckin’ self, I guess. I had this very detailed, highly specific vision of exactly how everything was going to go -- “

 

“Saw your list.” A smirk tucks itself in the corner of Bill’s mouth.

 

“Oh God, you weren’t supposed to. The last time I made a pre-sex checklist, Joe got on me for _ruining the moment.”_

 

“I loved your list. So sweet! _Ask B if it’s a good or a bad day. If good day, ask if she wants to fuck. If yes, try to flirt [eyebrows!].”_ Quoting Alison, Bill makes parentheses with her thumbs and forefingers as she says _eyebrows_. “You’re always checking in with me, which I really, really appreciate, especially after that Doctor.” With a tremble, she alludes to the Doctor in her universe, who did whatever they wanted without caring about its effects on Bill.

 

“And my eyebrows…” Bill trails off for a moment. “Moira was always like, _They’re so thick. Don’t you want to look a little more feminine?_ Made me feel like I had caterpillars on my face.” She mutters at the memory of her clueless foster mum. “But you… You think they’re sexy! And...I don’t need to _look a little more feminine_ or whatever for you because...because...just looking at you...feeling like the best girl in the universe…”

 

“In _any_ universe! You’re the best girl in any universe!” Letting go of Bill, Alison spreads her hands wide. She and her Time Dorks found their fourth family member in an alternative universe, so Alison feels qualified to attest to Bill’s multiversal appeal. She lowers her voice. “--And...um...so...it really was okay?”

 

“Alisonshine, sweetheart, it was so much better than okay. Of course it wasn’t perfect; we’re still figuring out about each other. But it was so, so, so wonderful. Out of this world! Intergalactically awesome! The way that you ask me if you can do things -- “

 

“That’s not annoying?”

 

“You make it hot.” Bill nods vigorously, her loose, tightly wound curls bobbing. “What was it you said? Oh yeah. _I want to feel all of you in my hands, all your warmth and all your power. I want to run my hands down your back, nails first, so I can feel your flesh. I want to go past that, but only if you want to. I want to draw blood, but only if you want me to. I want to feel how warm it is, but only if you want me to. I want to hold you fast, both inside and out, but only if you want me to. Please, please, please, tell me what you want to do._ I used to wonder why anyone would do anything with blood. But now...after that...I understand.” Bill meets Alison eye to eye. “You make everything amazing...even tears. Like...you make my tears amazing.”

 

“But that’s because they are.” Shaking her head a bit, Alison wonders how anyone could fail to recognize that. “You’re an amazing person, so obviously your tears are amazing too. Then, when you start coming and crying at the same time, it’s like your whole body is weeping for joy. This ecstasy is flowing through you, and it’s too much to keep in, so it just...just...pours out of you, and I can taste it. They’re not salty tears; they’re just the very slightest bit sweet…”

 

“See? See? That’s it. You want to kiss me when I’m crying and coming and hiccuping. You want to lick away my tears when I’m all messy and frazzly.”

 

“Because you’re beautiful!” Alison jumps for emphasis.

 

“You do realize you probably licked some of my runny nose too, yeah?”

 

“I licked around your nose,” Alison corrects. “And yeah, your hair was frazzly, but you were still beautiful because you were so...so...free and expressive and joyful and...full of yourself, but in a good way.”

 

“You like my tears,” remarks Bill with a sniffle. “No one’s ever liked my tears. My nickname in school was _Drippy_ ‘cause I cried when I won the science exhibition. And Moira -- _Bill, pull yourself together!_ Even Razor would tease me about _getting a little leaky there._ But you… You always ask me what I’m feeling, and then you stare at me like I’m the northern lights or something.”

 

“Well, it’s kind of astounding to me that you cry so easily. I spent two decades of my life completely unable to cry. But you’re in touch with your emotions; you feel them immediately, and you’re not afraid of them. To me, that’s _stupendissimus.”_

 

With a sigh, Alison continues: “When I see your tears, I know you’re feeling something deeply, and I know that you’re not ashamed of showing how deeply you feel it. When I see your tears, it’s like seeing your feelings or seeing your thoughts, so clear and bright and shining, and your thoughts are beautiful, just like the rest of you. You know how the Magister calls you _Heliantha clarissima?_ That’s _brightest, most radiant, most shining, most brilliant sunflower._ You are... _clarissima.”_

 

“Awwwwwww, Alisonshine…” Bill’s eyes fill up, and the corners of her smile twitch as a sob wells in her mouth. “I would say that you’re trying to make me cry on purpose, but you don’t really have to try to do that. You just make me so very happy. You’re just so sweet and kind and... _sexissima_ and _snugglissima_ and _lovablissima.”_

 

Alison giggles and hiccoughs at the same time. “Oh God, now I’m going to cry too. I can’t believe you’re making Latin jokes. I always wanted a partner who made Latin jokes.” Bill is so amazing. How is it that such a lovely person wants to be Alison’s?


	2. Bill's Evil Ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manifesting in all her oleaginous glory, Bill's creepy stalker ex tries to convince Bill that she owns her. Alison and Bill try valiantly to make her fuck off, but she doesn't.

“Oh fuck.” Bill, glancing at the bumpy pavement before her, makes a sudden stop.

 

“What? Are Latin jokes a hard limit or something?”

 

“No, nothing to do with you. It’s just…that puddle has no reflection.” Bill, hand trembling, points at a shadowed puddle in a hollow on the bike path.

 

Alison eyes it. Bill’s right. “Well, that’s weird. Is it like...something else besides water?”

 

“Remember how I told you about Heather?” Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Bill yanks back on her joystick, reversing away from the puddle.

 

“Oh yeah. She was your sort-of ex that you met around the same time you met the wrong Doctor.”

 

“But it never went very far because I told her to wait for me, but then she got assimilated into a pile of sentient space slime -- “

 

“Oh shit, what a way to go.”

 

“No, she’s still alive. In fact, that’s her.”

 

“The puddle is her?” Alison shudders from one end of herself to the other. She has learned in her travels through space and time that people come in a variety of forms beyond the human one she herself has. The Doctor and the Stylist, for example, have outwardly human, but inwardly alien, bodies. She knows people with partially or wholly artificial bodies, whether the Magister, her Bill, several TARDISes, or repersoned Cyber people in various states of robotification. Even the psychic vampire from Finisterra, which didn’t even have a physical body, was still a person.

 

Though Alison has acquaintance with the many ways in which people can manifest, people made of slime still gross her out. She has actually met one before; when touring the Magister’s mind palace, she was introduced to Bruce, his sixth life/self. Though he looked nominally human because he was possessing one, Bruce’s true form was a hunk of gelatinous goo that resembled a skinless slug. Anyway, even the memory of Bruce makes her skin clench like slugs are crawling over it.

 

“Yeah. She said she’d always find me, and I told her that she didn’t have to and that I didn’t want her to. But here she is. Again. S’pose it was inevitable.” Bill sighs, slumping minutely in her chair. Even her hair loses some of its usual perk. “Maybe she’ll listen this time.”

 

Alison has her TARDIS Talk phone, her instantaneous link to the Magister and the Doctor, wherever they are in the universe, in hand. “Want me to call one of our Dorks?”

 

Bill sighs again. “No. Besides, she’s immortal shapeshifting slime. What can they do about it?”

 

“Plenty! I’ve got a robot who can mind-fuck anyone in any universe, and I’m not afraid to use him.” Alison puts her hands on her hips.

 

“Just want to try talking to her.” Straightening, Bill folds fixes the puddle with a stolid look of stubbornness. All the lovely curving lines of her face go stern and rectilinear.

 

“Oh, Bill of my heart…” Alison touches her lightly on the forearm. “You don’t need to put yourself through this. If she came from your universe to this one, even after you told her not to find you, then she’s a stalker. Stalkers don’t care about talking things out. I know; I know; I had an evil ex too, and he’d text me all the time after we broke up. He’d send me all this bullshit, assuming that I was pining for him. Any sort of response from me, even if it was  _ Go fuck yourself backward with a rusty pitchfork, you cradle-robbing pervo!,  _ gave him encouragement. I just had to freeze him out completely: no responses, total blocking on my phone and stuff, unfollowing and unfriending everywhere. I know you want to tell her off; I know you think that maybe, just maybe, she’ll understand this time, but she won’t. Stalkers don’t understand anything beyond their own possessive, egotistical delusions. C’mon, Bill -- please -- let’s just -- “

 

“Bill -- oh Bill! I found you! I finally found you!” Suddenly a white woman about Bill’s age appears in front of them. With a roundish face and small, lithe stature, she would be sort of cute if she weren’t a stalker from beyond the end of the universe with the world’s worst eyeliner. Even the cosmetically clueless Alison knows that heavy, runny black circles around your eyes on an otherwise unpainted face just look asinine. 

 

The creepy ex lunges like she’s going to hug Bill. Alison remembers how she, Bill, and the real Doctor faced down the false Doctor recently from Bill’s universe. After a year of the false Doctor’s continuous betrayal and mistreatment, Bill ended up partially robotified on a Mondasian colony ship. She spent a year there, working with Harry, the Magister’s counterpart, plotting to overthrow a despotic regime. By the time Alison and her Time Dorks flew through a black hole to rescue her, Bill had restored her strength and confidence. Before leaving her universe for a new life with the Dork family, Bill stopped by the fake Doctor to say goodbye. Anyway, the fake Doctor ran toward Bill just as the creepy ex now launches herself toward her.

 

The real Doctor stopped the fake one from reaching Bill the first time. Now, though, there’s no real Doctor here, so Alison advances. She knows that Bill’s efforts to banish the creepy ex will fail, but she will not abandon Bill to a stalker. “Fuck off.” She places herself in the middle of the bike path.

 

Heather heads to left, trying to duck around Alison, but Alison mirrors her. She tries the other direction, but Alison matches her, no matter where she goes, keeping her from Bill. “Get out of my way!” cries Heather with a roll of her eyes, more exasperated than truly threatening.

 

“Fuck off.” Alison doesn’t move. The two of them face each other on a section of the bike path one meter inland from and four meters above the lake. A concrete barrier topped with a three-tier steel railing keeps people from the water, but it provides no protection against the wind. Starting off in New York, the breeze accelerates across the open water to jab people right in the bare skin with its splintery cold. Alison, whose cheeks sting, wraps her cape [well, it’s the Magister’s, actually] around her and wishes for a muffler.

 

“Bill called me here.” Heather lowers her straight, dark eyebrows.

 

“I  _ didn’t _ call you here.” Her voice dropping on the negative, Bill cranes her neck around Alison to deliver the message to Heather. Alison takes a step to the side. “Said you could go a long time ago -- so go.”

 

“But my tears… I cried for you; you’ve carried my tears for so long, but it’s okay, honey. You don’t need to do that anymore. I’ve come back for you; I’m here to take you home.” Heather reaches out with one arm.

 

“Fuck  _ off.” _ Alison resumes her previous position between Bill and the creepy ex so swiftly that the creepy ex has to retract her arm before Alison’s shoulder knocks it out of the way. “You have no claim on Bill, emotional or lacrimal. She doesn’t carry your tears, you -- “

 

“Actually,” says Bill, “I sort of do.”

 

Alison feels a sudden cold sinking, like someone has just splashed the choppy water of Lake Champlain on her. She swings back toward Bill. “Oh God -- you mean -- last night -- I drank -- the slime of your evil ex?”

 

“No no no!” Bill waves her hands.

 

“But...then why did you say  _ her _ tears?”

 

“It’s more like...a radioactive isotope she put in my tears so she could find me.”

 

“Oh thank God…” Alison, coughing with a leftover gasp, relaxes a bit. “Did she ask you if she could?” When Bill shakes her head, Alison spins to face the creepy ex. “Why the fuck were you contaminating Bill like that, sticking shit in her body that she didn’t want?”

 

“But they’re still my tears,” Bill pipes up. “Please don’t be angry at me, Alisonshine.” 

 

“Hey… Hey… No, I’m not angry -- not at you at least.” Crouching to Bill’s level, Alison holds her hand tightly. “You’re not the arsehole who thinks that you automatically own whatever or whoever you accidentally drip on.”

 

“I...I...know I look all frazzly when I’m crying, but I like when you drink my tears.” Bill looks up at her hopefully.

 

“Don’t worry -- me too. I just… I was kind of repulsed by the prospect of maybe having eaten slime, but I wasn’t repulsed by you yourself,” Alison reassures her. “You never repulse me. You’re beautiful!” 

 

“Oh… Good then.” With a pressure from her hands to Alison’s, Bill says in a more secret voice, “No really -- you didn’t eat anything last night except dinner and then me.” 

 

Heather lets out an indignant gasp, like  _ How dare you talk about eating out in front of me? _

 

Pretending not to notice, Alison grins and says to Bill, “I like when I drink your tears too, and I don’t care about any stalker isotopes in them, because they come from you. They’re all you; you make them yourself, as much as you make every single smirk, every single eyebrow squiggle, every single laugh. You trust me enough to cry in front of me, and you make the choice to let me taste them. That consent, that choice, that trust -- “ She lowers her voice to a whisper and meets Bill’s eyes. “That’s just amazing.”

 

“You drink tears?” Heather says. “That’s sick.”

 

Alison has no patience for people who threaten those she loves and no patience either for people who assume that her kinky desires entail reveling in other people’s misery. But, if this thoughtless person thinks she’s a glutton for the punishment of others, who is she to disappoint? She stands to her full height and fixes her eyes on Heather like she might never blink again. “I draw blood too.”

 

“Ew.” Heather backs up a little bit.

 

“Yeah.” Alison looks down upon her and reverts to her earlier flat command. “Fuck off.” The lake wind snaps at the black velvet edges of Alison’s cape, and she hopes that it looks intimidating. At best, she’s an incontrovertible magisterial force. At worst, she’s a melodramatic weirdo who takes shit way too seriously. Either way, decides Alison, the message is clear:  _ Don’t fuck with me. _

 

Nevertheless, the evil ex still tries to assert control of the situation by folding her arms and saying firmly, “No. I’m here to take Bill home.”

 

“Fuck off,” Alison repeats. 

 

“No, you’re not,” Bill says to Heather.

 

“What?” cries Heather.

 

“Not going home with you,” says Bill. “I  _ am _ home.”

 

“But -- “

 

“Fuck off!”

 

“You belong with me!” says Heather. The sun winks out from behind a bank of blue cloud. For a moment, Heather’s blond hair fades to white, and her skin approaches transparency. Clad in an ecru camisole and faded khaki trousers, Heather seems washed out.

 

“I belong wherever I want to be and to whoever I want to belong to,” says Bill. Cocooned in the warmth of her rainbows, she folds her arms, rejecting the creepy ex’s wan, pale offerings for the strength of bright brilliance. “And this may not be the universe I was born into or the family I was born into, but this is the home I choose. This is the family I choose. You are not part of my universe. You are not part of my family. You are not part of my life. Told you that you didn’t have to wait for me. Told you that you didn’t have to follow me. Told you that you had no obligation to me, but you didn’t listen. If you ever liked me the slightest bit, then you’ll listen to me now and go away and leave me alone.”

 

“What? What are you talking about?” Heather widens both arms. The wind strengthens. Alison wishes Heather would blow off the bike path and take an impromptu trip to the bottom of the barely unfrozen lake, but unfortunately she doesn’t seem to be heading in that direction. “You and me -- we’re meant to be together. Besides, if you become like me, we can go anywhere, do anything, even be anything. You don’t have to stay stuck on Earth. You don’t have to grow old and die. You can live forever and travel the universe. Just you and me, together, like it should be…”

 

Blah, blah, blah. Heather continues her spiel. She can show Bill a universe full of wonderful things that most people can’t even dream of. They could have adventures out of Bill’s favorite books or  _ whatever that shitty ‘70s sci-fi show is that you think is so great. _ Alison wonders how Heather thinks that she will endear herself to Bill by insulting  _ Defenders of Earth, _ a show that has more imagination in a single episode than Heather has probably had in her entire life.

 

Alison texts the Magister:  _ Bill’s stalker ex from Bill’s home universe is bothering us. Bill, of course, is trying to make her go away by being calm and sensible and reasonable, but it’s not working.  _

 

The Magister responds immediately with an angry cat face emoji.  _ Are you two in immediate danger? I shall be there momentarily. _

 

Heather continues yammering. She and Bill together will have much more fun than Bill has ever had before. Heather knows that Bill has traveled with the Doctor, but she promises that adventures with her will much more enjoyable and romantic than any you could get with  _ some pompous shithead Time Lord. _ “Plus,” says Heather, rolling her eyes at Alison, “I guarantee that life with me will be more exciting than with some dull Earthling who just wants 2.5 kids, a boring job, and a nice flat in the suburbs.” 

 

_ No danger,  _ Alison replies to her robot.  _ She just won’t stfu. Can I trouble my evil alien superpowered robot for some appropriately intimidating backup? On the bike path by the beach that’s one before Red Rocks. _

 

_ You are my Domina, and I will obey you. _ The Magister closes his test with an emoji of a robot cat with a devilish smirk and aerials on its ears. As a robot who can make immediate mental connection with other machines, he uses this capability to make up his own emojis on the fly.

 

When Alison returns to the dispute between Bill and Heather, she finds Heather hung up on Bill’s partial robotification. “Oh honey, is that why you’re wheelchair-bound? I can help you with that, you know. If you go with me, you can take any form you want. You can be your old self, your real self, your true self, the one I fell in love with.”

 

Bill starts crying. “You don’t think I’m real? You don’t think I’m true? You don’t think I’m good? You’re no better than the Doctor I left behind. This is me -- all the biological bits, all the robotic bits, all the broken bits, all the healed bits -- and this is my home, and this is my Alison. I’m good and real and true just as I am, and so is my Alison, and so is my home. I don’t like you. All I ever had was a crush on you, but that’s gone. I don’t want you, and I never want to see you again! Leave me alone!”


	3. The Magister's Intercession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summoned by Alison, the Magister dials his air of genteel villainy up to 11 and scares the shit out of Bill's creepy ex. Finally she leaves for good, and everyone is happy.

“Ah, good afternoon!” says a voice behind Alison. It’s the Magister, of course, and he advances on Heather with arms turned out and partly extended. Bent forward as if he can’t wait to reach her, his deep brown eyes filled with golden sparkles, his heavy eyebrows lifted along with all the wrinkles on his forehead, he looks like he’s smiling with his entire body. 

 

Usually the Magister wears layers of cassock-like robes, black interleaved with the bright violent colors of the sunset, narrow on top, loose on the bottom. But Alison requested intimidation, and so he complies. He wears a suit in shades of black, everything creased so sharply and sewn so precisely that all hems and pleats have turned to blades. His long narrow shoes, also black, shine like eels. He has abandoned his habitual gloves so that his unsheathed mechanical hands glimmer in all their metallic glory. “And you,” he says to Heather, taking her hands in his, “must be the person with the inability to comprehend the word  _ no. _ Fascinating!”

 

Pulling herself free, Heather curls her lip. “Who are you?”

 

“Oh, so sorry,” says Alison. “I probably should have told you, but you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m just a  _ dull Earthling _ because that’s really not an accurate characterization. In fact, I have a small amount of familiarity with space and time travel myself, being, as I am, a friend and fellow traveler with three Time Dor -- I mean Lords, including the Doctor, their inevitable spouse, and the Stylist. And this,” she says, extending her left hand to the Magister, who takes it, “is my evil psychic superpowered alien robot that I picked up during my first extraterrestrial encounter.”

 

“You married an alien robot?” cries Heather.

 

“No. I am my Domina’s partner in crime, as well as her cherished possession.” The Magister bows. “I was informed that you were harassing my lovely owner and her partner, so I’ve stopped by to see if I might be of service.”

 

“Yeah.” Bill snorts snot back into her sinuses. “Can you make her fuck off, please? She’s been stalking me for years now, and she doesn’t understand that she needs to get out of my universe and go back to her own.”

 

“Your wish,” says the Magister, letting go of Alison’s fingers, “is my command.” Turning to Heather, he holds her eyes for a moment, then looks down at his flayed hands clasped before him. “Trespass,” he says to her in an almost casual tone, flexing and spreading his fingers. They gleam like an array of knives. “Stalking. Assault. These are rather dire transgressions, you know.”

 

“I didn’t even touch her!” Heather waves in Bill’s direction. “Besides, what can you do about it? It’s not like you can crush me to death with your evil robot hands or something. I’m immortal.”

 

“I’m unimpressed,” says the Magister. “I’m also disinclined to use any sort of physical force whatsoever.”

 

“You’re going to do what then?” Heather scowls. “--Smirk at me till I leave?”

 

The Magister stands still and quiet for a few seconds. Then he begins to walk slowly around Heather, his steps as deliberate as if he’s measuring out paces. “You’ve traveled extensively in this universe and others, I believe?” This steady circular sneaking happens frequently enough in  _ Defenders of Earth _ and other cheesy TV shows that Alison has given it its own name:  _ Orbital Surveillance of Contempt. _ As much as she’s watched it on the small screen, Alison has never seen anyone perform such a maneuver in person, least of all her robot, who’s making it the current centerpiece of an over-the-top one-person show on villainy.

 

For purposes of easy blocking and cool camera angles, people on TV usually stand still when they’re in Heather’s position. But she doesn’t, turning instead, trying to keep the Magister in her view. While he moves smoothly, she stumbles in a puddle, then trips on a crack of pavement. Nice, thinks Alison. Even if Heather’s not emotionally perturbed yet by the evil alien superpowered robot, she’s physically unsettled, distracted. He’s purposely keeping her off balance. 

 

Heather gives up tracking the Magister. Planting her feet, she glares over her shoulder. “Yeah, I have. Why?” Though she tries to fasten herself securely to the ground, the wind again tosses a gust at her. Her form wavers, as if she senses her imminent dissolution that will occur after the Magister kicks her butt.

 

“So then you’re familiar with a wide variety of people, including, I presume, the Time Lords.”

 

“Unfortunately.” 

 

“Would you tell me, please, why you dislike their kind?”

 

“Because they’re a bunch of holier-than-thou bastards,” says Heather promptly, “who think they’re perfect and amazing because they can time travel, but they’re really just hypocrites on power trips who are no better than humans. And the renegades are the worst.” She squints at the Magister. “If you’re this universe’s excuse for the Doctor, I’m going to laugh in your face.”

 

Alison has to concede that she approves of the creepy ex’s analysis of Time Dorks. The Magister and the Doctor’s kind do tend to be arrogant, sanctimonious people with more power than they know how to wield responsibly. Yet somehow they have a nearly universal reputation as awesome, godlike beings. Furthermore, in the case of the Doctor, they are often revered as problem solvers, peacemakers, and saviors who can do no wrong. Alison has met with enough uncritical Time Dork worship to be glad of its opposite wherever she finds it. It’s always refreshing when another human -- or, in Heather’s case, a formerly human person -- perceives Time Dorks more realistically.

 

“Well, spare me the merriment then,” the Magister replies to Heather, “for I am neither this universe’s excuse for the Doctor nor the Doctor themselves.” He tucks his chin and raises his hands, as if letting her have her way. “I am but their Master.”

 

Heather’s squinchy look of annoyance remains unchanged. The Magister is as subtle as a vaudevillian, and his self-identification still went over her head. Alison sneaks a peek at Bill. Tears drying in tracks down her cheeks, she now observes the Magister’s scenery-chewing techniques with great interest. 

 

Catching Bill’s eyes, Alison flicks her eyebrows up and down. In response, Bill lowers hers, fiendish pleats showing above the bridge of her nose. Yeah, she saw Heather miss that too, and she, like Alison, can’t wait till Heather figures out who she’s been talking to all along.

 

The Magister presses on with his interrogation. Noting that the evil ex thinks little of the Doctor, he wonders if she thinks that the Doctor is the worst of the renegades. Heather says that no, the Doctor may be arrogant, but they do good things. “The worst Time Lord of all,” she says, “is the Master. All the renegade Time Lords are pretty much horrible, but I can’t imagine them running over kittens in their TARDIS -- except for him. Him I can.”

 

The Magister always loved cats; in fact, one of his selves is a cat, and he holds feline creatures close to sacred. Heather’s suggestion that he would hurt one makes his whiskers bristle and his eyes turn golden with rage. His lips part slightly, involuntarily, and Alison doesn’t need to hear it to know that a defensive hiss builds in the back of his throat. 

 

 _“Tace, mi Magistre.”_ _Hush, Magister of mine._ Alison barely speaks the words, mouthing them more than anything, hoping he can keep his cool. 

 

The Magister’s eyes leap to meet hers, as if she truly did speak and he truly did hear. Perhaps he did; he’s a cat, after all, and feline ears function much more sensitively than human ones. He lets down both his arched eyebrows and his hunched shoulders, assuming a stance of greater relaxation. By changing his posture slightly, he acknowledges her without speech. By dropping his eyes and smiling, he submits without abasement and masters his indignation.

 

Turning his attention again to Heather, the Magister asks her how this so-called worst of the Time Lords might respond if she were to incur his displeasure. Heather looks up and to the left as she thinks. She knows he’s a sadist, an exploiter of weaknesses, and an expert torturer who must know all the best ways for making a myriad of species suffer and die. She believes that he would capitalize on her transmogrification abilities by forcing her to shapeshift into various aliens. He would then inflict upon her all those poisons to which each shape of hers was uniquely vulnerable. “He’d kill me, but then bring me back with mad science and do the same thing all over again,” she concludes. “God, I hate that fucker.” 

 

“Mmm…” Tapping his lips with one finger, the Magister reviews Heather’s words. Alison follows the line of his sight; across the lake, along the New York shore, the soft lid of clouds cracks. Diagonal streams of sunlight strike down from the sky, infusing the world with glowing slanted paths of color. Maybe the weather is clearing up after all.

 

“Your assessment of my psychological technique may be accurate, but your supposition of my execution leaves much to be desired,” says the Magister to Heather. “A series of forced transmogrifications and their concomitant matched poisons requires far too much labor. You flatter yourself unduly if you think that I would waste such elaborate efforts on -- “ He pauses, scans Heather up and down, sniffs, and concludes, “--Minor irritants.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Heather.

 

“It means,” says the Magister brightly, as if announcing an award, “that you have just supplied yourself with the perfect motivation for departing this planet -- indeed, this universe -- post-haste and never speaking to, addressing, or even looking in the direction of my lovely owner, her dear partner, and/or any of their friends, family, or associates ever again.” 

 

Bill clears her throat as clouds part in places over the water. Whipped up into foamy tips, the waves here and there brighten with a sharp glint, just like Bill’s eyes. With the power of the sun in her gaze and rainbows wrapped warmly all around her, she possesses a fierce, concentrated incandescence. Alison uses darkness and severity to say  _ Don’t fuck with me;  _ Bill, by contrast, uses blazing brightness. “You heard him. Go away. Get off the planet. Get out of this universe. Go home.” Bill underscores this message with a sound from her chair: a deep, resonant train whistle announcing an inevitable passage.

 

“Why?” Heather shakes her head, still focused on the Magister, as if Alison and Bill no longer exist. “Because you’re  _ the Master,” _ she says, “and you’re gonna torture me forever if I don’t? Oh, a big bad evil Time Lord -- I’m so scared!”

 

Heather refuses to believe that the Magister is who he claims to be. As proof, the Magister offers to transmit telepathically into her mind a small sampling of his worst atrocities. He asks for her consent before doing so, and Heather laughs. “Now I  _ know  _ you’re not the Master,” she says. “He never asks permission. He’s a fucking steamroller who does whatever he wants and destroys whatever he needs to to get his way.”

 

The Magister just blinks placidly at her, repeating his questions. Does she require proof of his identity? Does she permit the receipt of an abridgement of his worst accomplishments? If so, she should know that the physiological and psychological effects from his revelations will be extremely upsetting. Therefore, he will stop at her command. Heather, tossing her head, says, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go on; do your worst.”

 

“Here,” says the Magister to Heather, “I am.” He lifts his chin, his face set impassively. He stretches out his left hand, then uncloses his bare, weaponized palm, as if releasing something from his grasp. He needs no gestures to activate his psychic powers, but he will always add a flourish if he thinks it will enhance his image.

 

When the Magister’s thoughts reach her brain, Heather suddenly jumps. She gasps, but the gasp doesn’t make it all the way out of her throat. “You…” She coughs. “You did  _ that?” _ Her eyes go wide, as round as full moons. “To all of them? All of them,” she echoes, more faintly this time, stumbling back a step or two. “Their minds and their wills and their entire lives, again and again, just because you could… 

 

“Jesus fuck, you’re a… You’re a…” Words fail her. Her eyes shuttle from side to side as if his memories are unspooling before her. “What the fuck are you?” she cries.  _ “What the fuck are you?” _ she screams, fists clenched at her sides. Whatever he has shown her apparently interferes with the concentration necessary for her to maintain human form. Momentarily she wavers like a threatened flame, and Alison can see right through her boring blond hair to the state of New York beyond her.

 

The Magister lowers his hand, stopping the transmission. His eyebrows go down; his eyes zero in sharply. “You know who I am,” he says, and his voice, though even, strikes deep. Just then, the clouds break on the Vermont side of the shore, spotlighting him. “I am the Master, and you… You are not wanted here.”

 

If this were a play, those words would break the spell. The infestation would be cleared from the land; thunderous applause would ensue, and everyone would go home, riding a crescendo of narrative satisfaction. Heather, however, declines to play her part. Still trembling, she looks at the Magister, but doesn’t move.

Alison and Bill share a frown. That’s Heather’s cue. Why isn’t she taking it? After a moment, it occurs to Alison that she is likely so scared by what she’s heard that she’s forgotten how to move. 

 

“Now…” says the Magister to Heather, his voice slightly softer. “You know who I am. You know what I can do. You now have the opportunity to depart this universe uncompelled, of your own choice, with your memories intact. If you do this, if you never associate with me, my lovely owner, her dear partner, or anyone in this universe ever again, then I will leave you alone. However, if you refuse to depart now or if you return at any point, I will change your mind.” The harshness with which he utters those three words promises duress and pain. “I will erase all your memories of my lovely owner’s partner, and I will render you incapable of crossing the borders into this universe ever again. Do you understand?”

 

Heather finally nods and scoots to the side, starting to slink away.

 

“Then make your choice,” he says. “Now!”

 

Stepping toward Bill, Heather opens her mouth. “Honey -- “ 

 

Alison experiences an overwhelming urge to punch the evil ex in the face. Just as she predicted, none of what she and Bill said got through to her at all. Denial is the stalker’s hope, Alison says to herself, and it springs eternal. Logic, reason, and appeals to compassion have no effect on the creepy exes of the multiverse. And that’s why Alison called in the Magister. He fights fire with fire when nothing else will work.

 

“If you say anything besides  _ Goodbye,” _ the Magister cuts in, “or if you do anything else besides leave, I’m evicting you and your memories from this universe by force.”

 

“Fuck!” Heather gapes at him, then realizes that she has said something else besides  _ Goodbye. _ She claps her hand over her mouth.

 

“Unfortunately,” says the Magister, “that was neither  _ Goodbye _ nor an exit.” He raises his left hand before him, as if he’s balancing a crystal ball on his fingertips that contains the spell of forgetting. He contemplates his gathered hand for a moment, then, with a smooth, languid motion, brings his eyes to Heather. “My sincerest apologies,” he says, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to -- “

 

Heather acts. She liquesces, shedding her solid form as if her container has just disappeared. Whatever she’s made of cascades to the sidewalk with a heavy splash. Alison staggers backward and throws up.

 

“She’s gone.” The Magister, his arm around Alison’s back, supports her. “Sh sh sh, dear Domina, sh sh sh. She’s gone.”

 

Bill regards Heather’s last known position, a quickly drying puddle of...Alison doesn’t want to know what. “Is she… Is she  _ really _ gone, Prof?” she asks in a shaky voice. “--Not just like absorbed or evaporated or whatever?”

 

The Magister nods. “She and her craft are out of Earth’s orbit and heading toward Otalux Four Eleven at this moment,” he says, naming the black hole that contains a portal between Alison’s universe and the one in which Heather originated. “I’ll be monitoring her for a while to ensure that she stays in her own universe -- and she knows that.”

 

Alison swallows the sticky, acidic saliva remaining from her puke. “So...um...did you have to mind-fuck her?”

 

“I did not. She took her last chance to leave freely.” Seeing that his Domina is grossed out but otherwise okay for the moment, Alison’s robot bends toward Bill.  _ “Mea Heliantha clarissima,  _ and how are you?”

 

Bill nods, but a sob jumps out from between her lips. “She said I wasn’t real -- who I am now -- me and my heart and my chair and my Alison and my Dork family!” she exclaims, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. “I know that’s not true, but -- is the Doctor -- ?” Just as Alison, now holding her robot fast, seeks her own personal Time Dork’s arms when she’s upset, so Bill looks for cuddles from hers.

 

“Your Doctor,” says the Magister with a gentle smile, “has been pestering me psychically for the past five minutes with two questions:  _ How’s Bill? Did you do your dramatic monologue yet? _ They await you back at home -- my home -- and Scintilla has put the kettle on. --What?” His voice hits a high note of indignation, presumably at some telepathic message from his inevitable spouse. “Therefore,” he says, recomposing himself, “I suggest that we all return inland and have tea -- but no shortbread because the Doctor has apparently consumed all that I baked this morning.”

 

“Good idea,” says Alison, flipping up the dangly, pointed hood on the Magister’s cape. “The tip of my nose is tingling -- eeeeeee!” She breaks off in a squeal of delight as the Magister, who thinks kissing is unsanitary, but nevertheless nuzzles her like a cat, nudges her nose to nose, poking her with his whiskers.

 

The three members of the Dork family turn away from Heather’s spot, back toward the fourth Dork, snugness, and tea. As they head down the path homeward, the wind blows away the last rags of cloud, and the sun touches everything with brightness and warmth.


End file.
